


Ain't That A Kick in the Head

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crusades, Gen, Head Injury, Medieval Medicine, Mustaches, Trepanation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2540267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of Joly's patients at the field hospital are more difficult than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't That A Kick in the Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



The mustachioed Frankish mercenary was back, and with a new head wound. 

“I refuse to be seen by this hedge wizard!” he shouted, nearly knocking Combeferre on his feet by his voice alone. “Don’t administrate to me, you devious scoundrel. That salve did nothing for my itching! Ah ha – you, the little Moor! You aren’t a quack. Come heal me.” 

Joly considered his position. If he abandoned Bahorel to his own whims, he’d probably die of a swollen head. However, saving his life also meant putting up with him, and not tossing a heavy brick at his head. 

“Please, Joly – let him go back to his own kind,” Combeferre mumbled. 

“Just because I’m a peasant’s son and you’re a priest’s byblow doesn’t mean we’re different kinds, you bourgeois fop! Pacifism is a vice, and not one I will indulge.” 

“Bahorel, do you want to live, or would you rather insult people?” Joly asked. 

“Both.” Bahorel stroked his mustache, which had a little caked blood in it. “But if I must choose, for now, I will choose life. Have mercy, and apply your tender hands to my brainpan.” 

Bahorel had clearly received a blow to the skull, and if the swelling weren’t relieved immediately, and any bone fragments removed, he would die. 

“Have you ever performed a trepanation, Combeferre?” Joly asked. 

Combeferre’s expression brightened. “No.” 

“Excellent. Fetch me the trepan. Bahorel, sit on this chair and bite down on this rag.” 

Bahorel took a seat and scoffed. “I am no stranger to pain.” 

Combeferre handed Joly the trepan, a special saw designed to bore through the cranium. Bahorel took one look at it and silently put the rag in his mouth. Joly poured a liberal helping of wine over Bahorel’s head wound, then finished off the rest of the bottle himself. 

“Is that wise?” Combeferre asked. 

“ _Pardi_ , I never perform surgery without it. Combeferre, practice your wrestling hold on Bahorel.” 

“But I haven’t wrestled since leaving the monastery.” 

“Muscles do not forget. Bahorel, my belligerent friend, prepare for suffering. I commend you to God, should He desire your company.”

Joly carefully positioned the trepan around Bahorel’s wound, and began to drill. If his hand slipped a little because he was drunk, well, God would sort it out.


End file.
